Page 13 of Suite 7

A gallery opening. Last spring. Vera in the corner with a glass of wine, holding court with Sloane’s friends, and I’d forced myself not to stare at how the fabric moved when she laughed.

Every muscle in my body locks.

My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails pressing crescents into my palms.

This cannot be happening.

The hair-tuck. The scar. The beauty mark. The posture. The dress.

Vera.

Vera Beckett.

My sister’s best friend.

The woman I’ve been fighting desire for since the moment we met.

In my room. Kneeling. Waiting for me to dominate her.

My mind races through options, each worse than the last.

I could leave. Walk out right now, tell Dominic there’s a conflict, ask him to find her someone else. Protect her from this, from me, from the catastrophe this represents.

She’s Sloane’s best friend. Off-limits. For reasons that haven’t changed just because fate decided to play a cruel joke.

But she’s here.

Kneeling in Suite 7, waiting to surrender to someone she trusts sight unseen.

And if I leave, Dominic matches her with another Dom. Then some other man will have his hands on her skin. Hear her call him Sir. And get to watch all that fire and defiance go quiet.

The thought detonates. Pure and unreasonable. No.

My hands are shaking. I curl them tighter.

She doesn’t know it’s me.

The temptation rises. Seductive and dangerous.

My Dom voice is different enough from my natural register. Lower, stripped of polite civility. She wouldn’t recognize it. I could give her the scene she needs, everything she asked for, and she’d never know.

But that would make every terrible thing Vanessa said about me true.

Informed consent requires information. She can’t consent to me if she doesn’t know it’s me. The anonymity she requested was about privacy from the world. Not deception from her partner.

She deserves the choice.

Even if it destroys this. Even if I never get another chance.

I move toward the bed, boot heels audible against the hardwood. I give her time to hear me approach.

She tenses, spine going rigid, hands pressing harder against her thighs. But she holds the kneeling position, knees apart, back straight, head slightly bowed. She’s trying so hard to be brave.

Her trust settles over me like a weight. Mine to protect or shatter.

When I stand beside her, her perfume reaches me, warm and floral, the one I’ve caught traces of a hundred times at Sloane’s and trained myself to ignore.

Can’t ignore it now.